


Perishables

by signalbeam



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 20:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10771632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signalbeam/pseuds/signalbeam
Summary: He was already waiting for her at the entrance of the Kosei dorms, standing in his long-sleeved shirt and pants as though he couldn’t feel the heat. She had not told him she was bringing food, so when she asked to come up, he reacted with his typical blinkered surprise. “For me? I’m honored, Makoto. But I cannot accept this. I’ve already done my groceries for the month. The expiration date on the meat is always a week beyond the printed label.”“Make way,” she said, and pushed him aside.





	Perishables

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the identity of the Pyramid dungeon's owner/August and Casino dungeon/October. Lighter spoilers through the end of November and Yusuke's confidant.

1\. 

In the summer, she did not begin her days as early as she did during the school year, but she never slept well, either. The heat kept her up late and, throughout the night, the discomfort would drag her out of her sleep and keep her from returning there. Last year Makoto had used the time to read or study and would nap in the air conditioned library, either the one close to her apartment or the one in school, between problem sets. This summer she was done with studying for such petty reasons, and had her work as a Phantom Thief to worry about. Insomnia, in this stage of her life, was an impediment to her goals. 

Akira had advised them all to rest before they returned to Futaba’s palace next week. Today she had sorted out an accounting error in the budgets for the cultural clubs and was now on the subway heading for Kosei’s dorms with two containers of food. She had learned down in Mementos that Yusuke’s scholarship did not cover any summer expenses. She had overheard, too, that Yusuke had not been winning the contests that would have provided him with the money that he would have budgeted for food, though she doubted that he would have thought about buying food at all. She could imagine him gripping the check and then, gasping, declaring that he would never dare sully his earnings on such worldly concerns. 

He was already waiting for her at the entrance of the Kosei dorms, standing in his long-sleeved shirt and pants as though he couldn’t feel the heat. She had not told him she was bringing food, so when she asked to come up, he reacted with his typical blinkered surprise. “For me? I’m honored, Makoto. But I cannot accept this. I’ve already done my groceries for the month. The expiration date on the meat is always a week beyond the printed label.”

“Make way,” she said, and pushed him aside. 

There was a kitchen on the floor with a microwave and a single burner electric stove and a regular-sized refrigerator. Yusuke’s shelf had nothing but withering bean sprouts, discounted tofu, and a half-eaten chunk of napa cabbage. She said to him, “Do you have a permanent marker?” 

“Why?” 

“I’m going to write your name on it so the other people in the dorm know it belongs to you.” 

“What a wonderful idea!” he said, and went running off to his room. He was back not long after, holding a black marker at her. 

She wrote his name on the lid and on the glass, trying to make her handwriting look more masculine to keep Yusuke from having to field awkward questions. “Eggplant and pork in the big one, and chicken meatballs with grilled peppers in the small. The eggplant is spicy. I hope it won’t trouble you.”

“Not at all,” he said. He opened the lids and sniffed each container. “Thank you. But you didn’t have to go to such trouble for me. I know you’re quite busy.”

“It’s all right. Hunger makes you less efficient, after all, especially if your diet isn’t nutritionally balanced.” She looked quickly to Yusuke. She wasn’t sure whether she had offended him by implying that he was a burden. He looked downcast; but he had looked like that before she had said that, too. She didn’t want to leave any room for doubt, so she said, “My sister hasn’t been taking my meals to work lately. And she hasn’t been asking me to come by her office to deliver for her, either. So I have more leftovers than I can eat.”

“What a relief,” Yusuke said. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I feared you had toiled over these dishes for many hours. But now I see that you are not tired for my sake.”

“That’s right,” she said. “I’m not tired for your sake.”

“Wonderful,” he said with exuberance. 

“I should be going,” she said. 

 

2\. 

It was almost a week later the next time she came by Yusuke’s dorm. They had gone to Mementos the day before, and would send the calling card the next day. She hadn’t seen her sister in two weeks. 

“Your use of green garlic was indelicate,” Yusuke said. It had started raining while she was on the train and, by the time she arrived at the dorm, the rain had started coming down with punishing force. “And the flavor of fresh chili peppers was not the same as the dried ones I’m used to. Fascinating. Perhaps the hamfisted garlic suits your personality. I’ve washed your containers, as well.” 

“Am I to understand that you enjoyed it?” 

“Yes, yes,” he said, as though there was no reason why she could have been in doubt. 

“I’m getting water everywhere,” Makoto said, squeezing the hem of her shirt. “Can I borrow a towel?”

“I air dry.” He regarded her, now seeing her bra, purple with a band a centimeter too tight to be comfortable, showing through. Ann had been right about the creepy intensity. It wasn’t creepy because it was perverse, though she wasn’t much of an expert on that front, but because it felt like an evaluation. You could almost see centuries of paintings flickering behind his eyes. She didn’t draw her arms around her chest, but she put her hand on her hip and cleared her throat. “You must come to my room,” he said without any sign of embarrassment. “I will lend you a shirt.” 

The blinds were open. The rain came down in white flashes, and water dripping down from the windows left snaking shadows on the floor and his—unmade, she noted—bed. His desk was covered in drawings. Art supplies littered the top of his drawers. Even his closet had supplies sticking out. He turned over a sketchbook on his desk when he came in, handed her a dark blue shirt, and turned his back to her while she changed. It was too large and hung loose around her hips and chest and arms, and smelled like shampoo around the collar. 

“What are you working on right now?” she said. 

“I am thinking of burning my oeuvre and beginning anew.” 

“That’s extreme. If you do that, you’ll regret it.”

“That’s true. As a rash person, you must have found yourself in many—” 

“Let’s put these in the fridge,” she said sharply. 

Today she had brought fish simmered in soy sauce and broccoli. It wasn’t very seasonal, but it was what she had on hand. This time Yusuke brought the permanent marker with him and wrote his name on the glass. 

It was still raining, so they went back to Yusuke’s room. Neither of them had umbrellas. Makoto had left hers at home and the cheap one Yusuke had bought from the convenience store broke a few days ago. Since it looked like it’d still be a while until the rain let up, she had him make his bed and sat down on it, fully prepared to study. But the shadows of the rain on the window made it hard for her to focus on the words and his bed, with its clean smell and light sheets, eased her eyes shut. 

She woke up with a start. She expected Yusuke to be hovering over her, pencil at the ready, but instead he had slumped over at his desk, face shoved deep into a ratty art book full of familiar looking paintings. Madarame’s paintings. The sound of her getting out of bed woke Yusuke up, and he did so with a strange, almost gasping shout. He shut the book and shoved it across his desk, sending papers scattering down to the floor. 

“I didn’t know you still studied him,” she said. It was the first thing on her tongue and came out before she could stop herself. Given the extent of Madarame’s disgrace, she thought Yusuke would want to put as much distance between his old mentor as possible. 

“Every time I look at these, I wonder whose painting it truly is and when was it that I knew what he was doing. What a coward I was,” he said. 

“You can’t blame yourself for that. It must have been like the story about a frog sitting in boiling water. If it happens slowly enough, the frog doesn’t notice the change in temperature and dies.” She winced. That was not the best thing she could have said. 

He busied himself with putting his desk back in order, and Makoto helped, bending down to pick up the papers. They were sketches of couples. He took the pages from her hands in a way that, had it been someone else, might have been considered a snatch. He smoothed the papers down then said, “Your cooking skills suggest some sense of aesthetic appreciation. I have been working on a difficult project, and I fear I’ve lost perspective on it. Would you be willing to lend me your assistance?”

“Of course, Yusuke,” she said. “Anything I can do.” 

He opened his closet and maneuvered a painting, wrapped in cloth, out of it. He whipped the cloth off and said, in what was most likely a question, but sounded more like a proclamation, “What is the subject of this painting!”

“It has something dark at the center, but I can’t tell for sure,” she said after a minute of studying it. 

“It’s _Desire_.” 

“I see, I see!” she said, stepping back and looking at it again. “This must be based off of the Mementos. I recognize the swirls. Very intestinal.” 

“Yes, yes! But I’ve been told that it’s an empty painting, just self-satisfied brushwork and nothing else. Tell me: do you see my yearning soul?” 

“No,” she said. “But I doubt I’d see that in anyone’s painting.”

“True art may be impossible in the modern age.”

“Don’t say that!” she said quickly, patting his shoulder. “It’s still a technical accomplishment. Not every painting you make can be perfect. My aikido training taught me that for every perfect throw, there are a hundred imperfect practice throws.”

“One hundred!” he said, standing up and gazing at the window. He tossed his head back, then put his hand to his temple. “Perhaps this is what Madarame felt. Trapped! Art is impossible! Ah! I am doomed.” 

And as he stood by the window, he continued to make passionate declarations for some more minutes, clearly working through something. Makoto went through the book of Madarame’s paintings while he emoted. Now that he had been exposed, it wasn’t hard to see that no single person could have done every single one of these paintings, but the ideal of being that artist shone on, even as the artist himself had rusted and tarnished. Yusuke had said that he was searching for the time that he knew Madarame was a fraud. How could you tell? Was there any way to tell? 

“The rain has stopped,” Yusuke said. 

“It’s been that way since we woke up,” she said, and smiled at him. 

Her shirt hadn’t dried yet. She folded it up and put it in her bag and said she’d return his shirt to him soon, perhaps after washing it—why didn’t he own more clothes? 

“Make sure you eat regularly,” she said. “Try to freeze vegetables and meat if you’re not going to cook them right away.” 

He didn’t seem to mind being fussed over and took it with good humor. “Of course. I hope your sister is doing well, too.” 

“Why?”

And he looked down, and looked back up at her, light catching on his eyelashes and his eyebrows furrowed. “You were calling for her in your sleep. I assumed something had happened.”

“It must have been a nightmare. Nothing’s happened to her in real life.” 

His hands jerked in an abortive movement, as though he had been about to pat her shoulder. “You’re welcome to my bed any time,” he said. 

“Thanks. Please take more care in what you’re saying.” She went through the gate. Once she did, she wanted to turn back and ask what else she had said—whether she had been in distress, or whether she had been resigned—but she kept on walking. 

 

3\. 

The sand had gotten everywhere: in her real world shoes, on her shoulders, in her bedsheets. In the hot, humid Tokyo summer night, she flopped from one side of the bed to the other, brushing grains of sand onto the floor. She almost wished she was back in the desert, adjusting her mask so the heavy iron, heating in the sun, didn’t rest directly against her skin while shielding her eyes at the same time. The world through that view had been almost impossibly bright. And thinking of the sun, the heat, the sand, made it impossible for her to sleep. 

Deep inside her, the engine roared with the force of time that had eroded all those rocks to sand, the force of oceans, like skirts, swelling over a wide area then snapping back, leaving behind the fine grains behind. It screamed like a sealed pot coming to boil. 

The fourth night after they rescued Futaba, boiling in her own insomnia, she gave in. She grabbed her phone and hit the MetaNav app. Her hand tightened around her pajama shirt, twisting the fabric left and right. The bottoms of her feet slid against her bedsheets. 

“Sae Niijima.” 

She had said it so quietly that she didn’t know whether the app had picked it up. The screen pulsed at her in the affirmative. 

It was not the calamity she had thought it’d be. Her hand, wrapped up in her shirt, twisted it harder, but it didn’t break. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately, and her emotions had a slick, glossy coating, difficult to perceive and hold onto. Her sister had a Palace. The idea was not foreign to her. She had wondered… it had kept her up at night. But she had expected the realization to pierce through her; for it to bleed. Instead she touched her temples and was surprised to feel her own soft skin instead of her iron mask. She tapped the screen of her phone again. 

“Home,” she said. Negative. She sat up in bed and peered through the blinds, seeing the city with her eyes. “Prosecutor’s Office.” No. “Police Station.” No. And, taking a breath, she closed her eyes and said, “Courthouse.” 

***

“Make this quick,” Sae said when she came out of the courthouse. “I didn’t ask you to be here.”

“I know,” Makoto said. “I just happened to be in the area and thought I’d stop by. I brought you lunch.” 

She had been waiting out here for nearly half an hour in the shade of a tall placard urging people to avoid loud confrontations. She had planned the entirety of the conversation on the train ride here, but once she got off the train, she had forgotten her script and all her attempts to reconstruct it had ended in failure. She shouldn’t have come here first thing in the morning. She had even hoped that her sister would have told her to go away; instead her sister had told her to wait. So she had waited. 

Her sister, in front of her, had pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Her hair was unwashed, her face with only a cursory pass of makeup. The suit she wore was the one she kept in her office, the black one that made her look stark and on her way to a funeral. She came up to Makoto and Makoto, unconsciously, took a step back towards the placard, then reached into her bag and held out the food that she had cooked the night before. 

“You came all this way just for this?” Sae said. “Are you putting off your studies again?”

“I’m returning a friend’s dress,” Makoto said, opening her bag so her sister could see Yusuke’s folded shirt—it looked enough like a dress like this—inside. “It’s important to eat well when you’re stressed. And I thought, since I had the spare time…” 

“I see. Well, thank you.” Sae took the food from her. She looked almost ready to walk right back into the courthouse, but she rolled her shoulders and smiled—a cool, clean professional smile. “How did you end up with your friend’s dress, anyway?” 

“We were studying together at home and she spilled some food on herself. I lent her something and told her I’d wash it for her.”

“You should have her pick it up instead. It’s too much for you to wash it and deliver it. There should be equality in your relationships with people.”

“It’s not a problem for me. I wanted to go see her, anyway.”

“As long as it’s not a pattern. There are people who will try to take advantage of you in the name of friendship. Don’t forget that.” Sae straightened out the collar of Makoto’s shirt, her fingers freeing stray hairs caught within, her palm warm through the fabric. Her palms rested on Makoto’s shoulders. Usually she would have been happy to have Sae fuss over her, but now she felt her guard rise as she imagined the Shadow within her sister, chewing away at her like a cow with its cud. She hoped Sae wouldn't notice her tension. She lowered her head to avoid making eye contact. 

“Has it been hard at work?” Makoto said. 

“It’s never been easy, that’s for sure,” Sae said. “Are you worried about me?” 

Sae’s hands came off her shoulder. Before she could leave, Makoto said, “When you’re at work, what do you see it as?” 

“See what?” 

“Does it make you feel like—” She clutched at the strap of her bag. “—a king of the court, or a knight fighting for honor, or something like that?” 

Her sister’s smile vanished. Her eyes went down to the crack in the sidewalk instead of meeting Makoto’s. “It’s just a way to keep you alive,” she said. She turned and said over her shoulder, “Would you make sure the laundry gets done?”

“But it had to mean something when you first started,” she said, and that was it, that was the line that was supposed to unlock this whole conversation and tell her what Sae’s Palace was, that would unlock everything. “When you first—Sis—please!” 

The cry seemed to come out from some other place inside her, torn out by force. And it had done her no good. Sae was already inside. People around her turned their heads to stare. 

 

4.

She was almost too upset to notice Yusuke in the Shibuya walkway on her way back home. If it weren’t for his peculiar, discerning stare, she likely would have rushed right past. Instead she stopped, like a nocturnal animal approached by light. He nodded at her, leaving her free to either go to him or to walk on by with an equally curt response. She went to him. 

“Are you waiting for someone?” she said. 

“I’m people watching,” he said. “And you?” 

“I had an errand. That reminds me.” She reached into her bag and gave him back his shirt. 

“I thought I would never see this again,” he said. 

“I doubt it.”

“True. Nothing gets past you. But you have me at a disadvantage. I haven’t finished eating the food you’ve brought me last time.” 

“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “You should really hurry with that fish if you don’t want food poisoning.” 

“My food poisoning tolerance is very high,” he said warmly. 

“So you’ll finish it tonight, correct?” she said. 

“Y-yes. Of course.” He looked down, abashed. Then he said, “If you don’t mind me saying so, you haven’t seemed like your usual self these last couple of weeks.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I must have seemed distracted.” 

“No. What I meant was, you seem more tired than before. That is all. If there’s something I could do to help, I would be pleased to help you.”

“I don’t have anything I need drawn,” she said. And she’d feel just plain bad asking him to buy her a smoothie. They were so expensive down here. But there was something that she had wanted to know for a while. Asking might cause him pain, but she had to know. She might lose her mind if she didn’t. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Madarame.” 

His face stiffened. A shiver ran across his shoulders. “Very well,” he said. “You may ask.” 

“I’m sorry if I’m hurting you,” she said. 

“Not at all. You’re not asking this just to satisfy your own curiosity or to sell my story to some paper. And you’re my friend and comrade. So naturally, you are free to ask me whatever you’d like.” 

“You mentioned last time that you were looking for… the first time you knew Madarame’s heart had become distorted. Did you find it?” 

“No,” he said. But his eyebrows came together and he sighed. “There must have been many times when I realized something was not right, but each time I’d convince myself it could not be possible. If I hadn’t been pulled into the Metaverse, I never would have been able to confront it. I was not like the frog.” 

“You were—what?” 

“The frog in the pot of boiling water. I knew it was boiling, but I couldn’t leave. Even now I wonder whether he had truly loved me. I don’t need your pity, of course,” he said after a moment. “The worst part was when I knew there was something wrong, but could not bring myself to admit it. My eyes are clear now. I have Akira and a purpose and friends, of which you are of course a part. So there is nothing to be sad about.”

They were in the same boat, Makoto thought. Or, just as Yusuke had left his boat, she had climbed onboard. She thanked Yusuke for the talk and went home. 

There wasn’t much to do beyond study. She had put all the laundry away already, had cooked enough food for a week, had cleaned the halls and vacuumed and cleaned out the tub already. Just last week, the lack of busy work would have upset her; but now she sat at her table with her books and accepted that there was nothing to be done. She could not ask Akira to change her sister’s heart unless there was proof her sister was hurting someone or causing some injustice, and there was no way her sister would ever do that. Futaba’s Palace had shown that it was possible for a distortion to be most harmful to the Palace’s owner, after all. And if her sister had ruined someone’s life unjustly, then surely they would’ve gotten a request in Mementos. It could be a situation like that, where her sister was hurting herself most. Thinking this, a dull pain rocked through her chest. She went on studying. She could not ask her friends to risk their lives on her simple request—and they had all of Japan to think about. Nothing could be done. 

She expected her sleep to be troubled again, but she slept the entire night without waking up once. She had slept extremely well. It was true what Yusuke had said, then: the most painful thing was refusing to see. She could no longer deny it. Her sister had a Palace and a Shadow. How sad and bitter it was! But it was the truth. 

 

5\. 

Since Akira was technically still dead, he couldn’t take Yusuke out for a celebratory dinner. He hadn’t thought to treat Yusuke at all; it was Makoto who, upon hearing about Yusuke’s win at the exhibition, had to invite Yusuke. 

_You should try to treat him more often,_ she texted to him. _It’s a big event for him._

_The new Persona wasn’t enough?_

_???_ she texted back. She would have used words, but Tsukasa’s barrage of texts had started arriving and she had to work on deciphering whatever it was he was saying. 

She texted Yusuke on Saturday evening, half-expecting him to decline out of pride. Instead his emphatic yes came barely a minute after she had sent out the invitation. They still only had three letters of introduction and their next trip to the Palace would be soon. He needed to keep his strength up, he said. 

They went to a restaurant in Shibuya that served different types of Chinese soup dumplings. She had noticed, since winning the exhibition, that Yusuke was more vocal about needing things: food, company, space. 

“Yes,” he said when she mentioned this to him. “Since I decided to reject the foundation’s support, I’ll need to rely on my friends to make up the difference.”

“Excellent,” she said, and, thinking of a joke, laughed to herself. “I’ve been meaning to show you how to budget for some time.”

“Ah!” he said, forlorn. 

Their discussion stayed focused on his art exhibition, but once their food arrived, their attention focused on eating the soup dumplings. Steam rolled off the bowls and the dumplings nearly burned the roof of her mouth. Her eyes watered from the heat. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you this,” Yusuke said while she was blowing her nose into her handkerchief. “How has Sae-san been?” 

“She’s been good. Almost too good. I can see why she was wary of people with the ability to change other people’s hearts,” Makoto said. “Even the slight change in her personality has been off-putting.” 

“I see. As long as she’s doing well.” He ate a dumpling in three bites, puffing air between each one. “She must have been the reason you asked about Madarame. Why didn’t I see it then?” 

“It’s all right, Yusuke,” she said, folding her handkerchief.

“How can I ask my friends to support me unless I can support them in turn?” The pain in his face was genuine and fresh. She was charmed by it. He was, she thought, the sweetest person she knew. 

“It’s enough to know you care,” she said. “I’m still your senpai, after all.”

“It will be different someday,” he said. He lowered his eyes back to his dumplings, then said, “Makoto. You will be furious with me when I say this. I have been using your containers to wash my brushes. I will… take care of any stains and return them to you soon.” 

“I like this new you,” she said, teasing. To her surprise, he laughed and slapped his knee. 

“A new me! Yes, I like that. You must be a friend to this new Yusuke Kitagawa as well.” 

Instead of going straight home, they met Ryuji and Haru at the fishing lake, and there Yusuke, enthusiastic about art in a way she had never seen him before, spoke endlessly about the iridescence of fish scales, the way shapes were bent by water, and the beauty of fishing poles. 

“He gets like that sometimes,” Ryuji said to Haru when Haru’s attempts at engaging Yusuke in conversation were violently derailed by exclamations about algae. 

While he was busy reeling in his fish, Makoto leaned over to Haru and said, “Yusuke’s just had a good day. You’ll get used to it soon.”

“You must be very close to him,” Haru said. 

“We’re all close. But yes, he’s a special friend of… not like that!” she said when she saw Haru’s eyes go round and head nod as though she had suddenly understood something. 

Haru went back to poking grubs onto her fishhook. “The three of us all had to fight the Shadows of the people we were closest to, didn’t we? It’s like a club.” 

“A—a club?” she said, wincing. 

“I think it’s nice. It’s been a great comfort to me sometimes. I know that must seem strange.” 

“It’s not,” she said. “I understand you perfectly well.”

Haru beamed at her and handed her the fishing rod. She took the rod and pulled back and flung the hook into the water. 

“You and Ryuji should take Yusuke out after this,” Makoto said. “Yusuke won an art exhibition—did he tell you? He’ll want fish tonight after this.” 

“He really is a fox. What about you, Mako-chan? You won’t be joining us?”

“I’ve already celebrated with him over lunch. And Sis is expecting me home for dinner tonight.” It was strange saying that, but it made her happy. Gorging herself on dumplings, going fishing with her friends, then returning home, was all pleasing to her. A few pylons down, Ryuji and Yusuke were gazing at the fish in their bucket. The tug at her line felt as though her hook had caught onto an anchor, and she planted her feet in the ground and grit her teeth and started pulling against the great weight, the thrashing creature, the inevitable deep.


End file.
